


The Favor

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adults, Co-workers, EWE, F/M, Fake Dating, Fluff, Free Spirit Hermione Granger, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Mild Sexual Content, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 00:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20555570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Draco and Hermione are in their thirties and always on the road together, always traveling for work, and too married to their jobs to think about more than a shag here and there -- no strings attached. But, when Molly offers to set Hermione up for Arthur’s 60th birthday, Hermione turns to Draco in desperation. Be her fake date to keep meddlesome, but well meaning, Molly off her back. What she doesn’t know, however, is that a certain blond has been in love with her for years.





	The Favor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pureblood_Muggle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pureblood_Muggle/gifts).

> This story was written for PureBlood_Muggle’s birthday — happy birthday, darling! Nearly 15 years we’ve known each other, which is amazing because you’re only 21 today. ;) I’m so excited that after so long, I’ve finally got you aboard the good ship Dramione. And I so hope you enjoy this little one shot! 
> 
> Alpha love and adoration and all the gratitude I can muster for **mcal**. <3

“Grab my bag off the chair?” Hermione clicked her clutch closed and stepped into her slip-on flats at the door. “Oh, did you find your razor?” She ran an absent hand through her hair and turned to her companion with a lifted brow. “You need your razor, Draco. It’s getting a little ridiculous looking.”

In true Draco fashion, he flipped her a rude finger before rolling his eyes and storming off toward the loo. She thought she could hear him mumbling as he rustled through the room. “Bloody great swot. Did you find your razor? Such a nag.”

She tried to stifle the laughter bubbling up, but failed as he appeared back in the room. Razor in one hand, handbag in the other. He held out the bag to her, a pink leather thing she’d picked up one night after a particularly stressful sting in Milan. Draco had followed her tirelessly through the small shops, carrying the result of her retail therapy with exasperated eye rolls and heavy sighs.

“I think I’m going to The Leaky when we get back,” she said thoughtfully, wrapping the long, thin strap of the bag over her shoulder. Her hand clasped the doorknob and she stepped into the corridor. “It’s either a pint or it’s shopping.”

“I’m in for a pint,” he told her flatly, and added, “I’m not in for one of your shopping excursions. My hands still haven’t recovered from Milan.”

He walked next to her down the corridor in a vest that she simply detested. It was silken, black, and showed off the many, many tattoos drawn upon his arms. Luckily he was adept at concealing charms, because no way would the Ministry allow them to be on display when they were on missions.

She eyed her favorite, a rotating galaxy that slipped around his forearm.

“You offered to carry the bags,” she reminded him as they approached the lift. “Besides, you can’t pretend that you weren’t lusting after that leather wallet in Via Monte Napoleone.” She looked at him pointedly as the lift dinged overhead. “And, I bought you lunch, so I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

“You know what?” He stepped into the small silver and wood-paneled box ahead of her and pressed his back to the wall. “On second thought, I think a pint is necessary.”

“Great.” A slow, steady smirk lifted one cheek as the lift shuddered to life. “It’s your turn to buy.” 

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron is a steady comfort in England. When she spent most of her time traveling all over the world, it was nice to come home to a solid, if not slightly musky, inn. She didn’t even have a home or a flat, just a permanent room at the inn. It suited her just fine; she didn’t need things — she needed adventure, and that’s precisely what the Ministry was paying her to have. All expenses on the government’s tab, and all the crime solving to make her heart sing day after day. Even sharing living quarters with Draco wasn’t bad; after they got over the initial duel…s.

“The wardrobe is full again,” Draco complained as he flopped into a chair across from her and swiped a bottle of ale from the bucket she’d ordered on his tab. “How do you have so many clothes and not a home?”

“Extension Charm.” She said it with the ‘duh’ clear in her tone.

“Those are illegal.” Draco tipped his drink back, adam’s apple bobbing under his deep pull. “I should throw you in Azkaban.”

“Right.” She grabbed her third drink — he was woefully behind today — and sipped at it. “Because after rounding up rogue Death Eaters all over the world, solving the mystery of the Mer-Killer, and saving the Minister from an assassinaton attempt in Prague, Robards will sign off on you locking me in Azkaban.”

He stared at her with those annoyed grey eyes and she couldn’t help but grin at him when she tilted her head to the side. “That is, if you could even defeat me in a duel first. What’s our record at? Sixteen to me, five to you?”

Draco’s neck rolled until it popped and he spent far too much time downing his drink. He watched her until the very last sip was taken, clanked it down onto the table, and grabbed another bottle. “Six to me, actually.”

“Oh, you’re such a liar.” She laughed and flagged Tom down for another bucket. “That last duel was a draw and you know it.”

“No, Granger.” His eyes bore into hers. “Just because I didn’t want to knock you unconscious in front of the Minister of Magic—”

“I knocked you unconscious in front of the Minister of Magic,” she reminded him matter-of-factly. “And he thanked me for it because you were being such a twit.”

“That’s because you’re a cruel witch, where as I am—”

“A wanker?” Her eyes sparkled as his face fell into one of his signature sneers. “Aw, come on, Draco. You know I’m only taking the piss.”

He was broody for ages after that, but when he was well plied with ale, Draco lightened up considerably. She liked him most like that; unguarded, playful, perhaps a little crumpled. And when they stumbled into their respective rooms at the inn, there was no bad blood between them at all.

* * *

“I really don’t want to go.” Draco shoved eggs into his mouth and then sipped on a steaming mug of coffee. “It’s not that I have anything against Weasley. Alright, I do, but that really doesn’t affect my decision.”

“I’m only asking because Molly has been harassing me to settle down.” Hermione shoved her half-eaten plate of pancakes toward the middle of the table and swiped her lips with a napkin. “She means well, but she’s driving me mental with all this ‘you should get married.’ ‘You’re thirty years old, you need to settle down and start a home’ nonsense.”

“Well, a witch of your age is less likely to take a husband the longer she refuses to marry.” He shrugged his shoulders and gulped down the last of his coffee. “She’s not wrong. It’s traditionally more difficult to find a wizard that doesn’t have loads of baggage if you’re younger.”

“That’s no reason to get married,” she laughed, because she wasn’t sure how else to respond. The old traditional ways didn’t appeal to her at all. Hermione would much rather enjoy the time she had traveling and enjoying the world than she would settle down and into the family life like Molly had. It just didn’t suit her. “Maybe if I’d fallen in love — sure. But, I haven’t.”

He was silent for a moment, busying himself with a piece of burnt toast. “I didn’t say that I agreed with Molly. Just that her logic is sound, if you’re looking for traditional marriage in the wizarding world.”

“And I’m not. Hell, I don’t even own a flat anywhere. My life is lived from city to city.” Hermione wrapped her hands around a teacup and grimaced at it. “That’s not conducive to a marriage. Not a traditional one by any means.”

“Plus, you get to shag exotic strangers,” he said, tossing a bit of toast at her. The cheeky grin on his face coaxed one from her, too.

“And there’s that.” She smiled through a sip of tea and then fidgeted in her seat. “Draco, please. I could really use your help this weekend. We’re off assignment and I know you don’t have plans.”

He sighed. “And how do you know that? For all you know, I’m shagging exotic strangers this weekend.”

“Bullshite,” she chuckled. “Come on, please? I’ll owe you.”

His face lit up at that. He nodded once, sharp, with eyes that promised he’d make good of her promise. “Alright, fine. One Weasley birthday date in exchange for a favor of my choosing.”

“Done,” Hermione agreed quickly, before he could think better of it and back out. “Since it’s Arthur’s sixtieth, you’ll need to dress up. Molly’s orders.”

“Great. Just when you’ve gotten me used to these blasted muggle jeans.” But he smiled despite the petulant tone and grabbed their bill from the table. “And, it’s your job to keep Weasel King away from me. I don’t need to catch his… affliction.”

“Liking the Chudley Canons is not an affliction.” She followed Draco as he moved through the inn to pay and nearly collided with his back when he suddenly stopped and turned on his heel. “What?”

“The Canons are shite. I won’t have him sully my good taste with his… Gryffindorish need to support the underdog.” He looked positively mad, with a grimace and tight eyes. “Besides.” He turned from her, handed his galleons to the cashier, and then led her from the inn at a quick pace. “The Falcons are favored to win and move on to the Cup.”

Men and Quidditch. She’d never understand the fascination. It reminded her of when her father would support muggle football; shouting at the telly, arguing uselessly with the ref, dogging his friends who supported other teams. She laughed at the way she equated Draco to her father; the two couldn’t be more different.

“Alright, alright. I’ll keep you and Ron apart,” she promised. “But you’ve got to play your part. Pretend that you love me.”

The sun beat down overhead, one of London’s rare and beautiful days. The feel of it was nothing compared to the warmth of Draco’s body. He set his hand on her waist and dragged her close. So much taller than her, he towered over Hermione with his eyes smouldering down at hers. Her heart stopped, breath caught, as he ducked his head down and left the scantest bit of space between their faces.

“I think I can be fairly convincing,” he whispered as his thumb traced circles against the denim at her hip. “Can you?”

The challenge in his eyes spurred her on. She smiled as she pushed herself onto her tip toes and melted against his body. Staring at him through thick, dark lashes, she licked her bottom lips and sighed.

His lips moved closer, only room for the finest hair between them. Eyes fluttered closed. Hermione pulled back, a breathy laugh breaking the tension.

  
“Convincing enough?” she whispered as she watched his eyes open. For a split second, she thought she saw disappointment there, and the thought sent a rush of something pleasant through her.

But the next second, it was gone. “Yeah,” he croaked, “Good enough.”

* * *

Hermione and Draco stepped through the Floo, one after another, to find a sea of ginger hair in various displays of magic and conversation. Molly stood in the kitchen with her wand zipping about the food and, upon seeing their arrival, dusted off her hands on her apron and approached them with a loving, excited smile.

“Oh, I had no idea that you two had finally decided to give it a go!” She wrapped them both in her arms and kissed Hermione’s cheek. “I’d always wondered, of course. When the fire is there, you can’t really stop it, can you?”

Hermione nervously bit her lip as Draco wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her body against his side. “Suppose not.”

“It only took me defeating her in six duels--” Draco, the charm pouring off him, said with a stupid smile and tight hold.

“Five duels.” Hermione glanced up at him, narrowing her eyes. He raised a brow at her and she clicked her tongue. “Fine. Six.”

“Oh, you two!” Molly waived them off with a jolly laugh and then swept back into the kitchen. “Everyone is outside already. Drinks, the WWN, it’s all the rage out there. Go on — enjoy yourselves. I’ll have dinner ready soon.”

The Burrow’s garden was decorated in various shades of crimson and gold. Streamers whizzed around the garden, and gnomes ran the ground with sparklers. It was truly a spectacle and Arthur appeared to be enjoying every second of it. Hermione steered Draco toward the patriarch, narrowly avoiding what appeared to be a pissed Percy chasing a little gnome out of the tent.

“Keep me away from that one, too,” Draco whispered in her ear.

“Percy’s fine,” she told him, waving him off. “It’s Bill you want to look out for. It’s nearly the full moon and I daresay he’ll be feeling quite… feisty.”

“Merlin, this family is bizarre.” His hand squeezed her hip, likely in an effort to keep her close. She turned her face into his arm and laughed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather ditch this party and grab a pint?”

“Well of course I’d rather,” she chuckled and glanced up at him. He looked tense, holding onto her as if his life depended on it. “But, once dinner is done and everyone’s drinking, it’ll be better, I promise.”

* * *

“So, you don’t want me to talk to one of my best friends,” Ron complained as he handed Hermione the famous Weasley punch, and ran a hand through his shaggy red mane. “All because your new “boyfriend” — cheers for the heads up, by the way — doesn’t like the Canons.”

Hermione downed the punch and held her cup out for more. She’d need a hell of a lot more than one, watered-down drink to make it through this evening. “Yes. Draco’s agreed to keep up the pretense as long as I keep you and your quidditch preferences out of his path.”

“That bloke is bad news, Hermione.” Ron’s grimace made her laugh. “What?”

“Some things just never change is all,” she said, eyes sparkling as she sucked down another glass of punch. “How are you and Susan, by the way?”

Ron leaned close to her, whispering in her ear. “Don’t tell mum or she’ll have my head. Susan’s pregnant.”

Hermione gasped and flung her arms around Ron’s neck. “Oh! Oh, that’s so exciting, Ron!” He held her around the hips, close and friendly, as she squeezed the life out of him. “Oh, your mum is going to be insufferable when she finds out.”

“Yeah,” he agreed as they parted, still a scant bit of space between them. “She’s still not pleased that we decided to hold off on the wedding until after Susan finishes off her schooling for Mungo’s.”

“It’s smart, though, Ron,” Hermione praised him with a playful smirk. “I mean, a bit pointless now that you’ll have an infant instead of a shared bank account.”

“A bit,” he agreed with a big smile. “Listen, I’m going to find Harry. I think you should probably go see Malfoy. He’s been staring over here for a bit. Looks… deranged.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raised in surprise and she turned to face Malfoy. He sat in a chair on the opposite side of the tent, his fingers caressing a brew as his eyes lingered in her direction. There was a scowl firmly attached to his lips and his dark gaze flicked away from her the second he saw her staring.

“That’s curious,” she muttered, lifting a third cup of punch to her lips. Her cheeks blushed under the warmth of the alcohol.

“What?” Ron laughed. “A bloke getting sour that his girl is talking to another bloke? A much better looking bloke, at that?”

She rolled her eyes, a genuine grin sliding up her cheeks. “Right. Because we’re dating.”

But, they weren’t dating. Draco had no reason to look so jealous. And, even if they were dating, being jealous of Ron was a wasted effort. The just had never fit together that way. The sex was terrible and the awkward hug afterwards was enough to keep them from becoming serious. And, at any rate, Draco was never jealous of any other man she had relations with. No. They were just reading him wrong. He probably just didn’t want to sit in a den of Weasleys all alone.

“I better go,” she whispered, gnawing at her lip.

* * *

“You’re sure that you’re fine?” It was the third time she’d asked and Draco, again, nodded once and sipped his drink. “It’s just that — you seem sort of out of it.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her, though it was through clenched teeth. His eyes swept the expanse of the tent as Molly made room for dancing. “Do you need another drink?”

She shook her head. That would be a terrible idea, given that her mind was already fuzzy from the punch. Her body thrummed under the beat of the music that filled the tent. “Do you want to dance?”

His darkened, heavy-lidded eyes swung to meet hers. Draco pursed his lips and considered her for a long moment, before standing abruptly and extending his hand out to her. “If we want to sell it, I suppose we ought to.”

“How romantic,” she teased, clasping his hand and allowing him to drag her to the makeshift dance floor.

They weren’t alone. The upbeat tempo that floated through the space captured many of the Weasleys and their plus-ones. She and Draco ended up closest to the music, moving without inhibition with one another. His hand curled around her hip and yanked her close. Hermione wasn’t the best dancer, but dueling did help teach her how to move with a certain fluidity. Her hips swayed in time with his as her hands raised and wound around his neck.

Draco’s breath against her hair, the way he moved so sensually behind her, had Hermione hot and bothered by the time the music shifted to something softer and slower.

She was going to give him an out. Hermione moved to back up, but he held her tighter.

“One more,” he whispered, and she swore she felt something hard against her thigh. But no, it couldn’t be. She’d imagined it, surely.

Hermione lifted her gaze to find his pupils blown wide in the dimly lit tent. She swallowed, suddenly parched. “O-okay.”

Draco swayed their bodies gently to the music. She wound her fingers through the fine hair at the nape of his neck. Something shifted between them. He was closer, hotter, breathier. He held her firmly against him and encouraged her hips to move in perfect tandem with his. Her gaze still hadn’t moved from his and it brought a deep flush of blood up her chest and to her cheeks. Draco looked like he wanted nothing more than to devour her.

His hands skimmed her side, traveling up her ribs, to her throat, and finally her jaw. Even in the loud beat of the music, she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. Panic, at what this intimate moment meant for her, for them. Licking away the dryness on her lips, Hermione blinked and somehow his face had gotten closer.

“What’re you doing?” The words, a breath and nothing more.

The corner of his lip raised. “Who would believe we’re dating without a little snog?”

“Every person here.” A nervous chuckle, because he was even closer. The heady scent of his spicy cologne, the definite presence of arousal, and the warmth of his hands on her face sent shivers cascading through her.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “Maybe not.”

His lips touched hers with featherlight precision. A soft, quick pressure that was over before it started. When he pulled away, she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes again; she didn’t want to see what she could feel -- the kiss was far more than that, to both of them.

And it changed everything.

* * *

Rio de Janeiro was unreasonably hot and humid. 

Couple the intense heat with the blush that ravaged her body every time her eyes met Draco’s, and Hermione was miserable with incredibly fuzzy hair. Irritated didn’t begin to cover it. Worse, every time she watched Draco traipse through the villa with no shirt and baggy flannel pajama pants on, she felt something… not entirely unwelcome.

They hadn’t spoken of their stolen, for-show kiss at Arthur’s birthday party. It’d been almost a week since then. A week filled with awkward mumblings as they passed each other in the villa, quickly snatched away hands when they accidentally touched, and lingering stares when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“Do you want to take a Portkey back tonight, or tomorrow morning?” She watched him move shirtless from their small garden outside back into the villa. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin that was all too alluring, and so she turned her nose back into the book perched on her lap. “We’re not off to Copenhagen for another two days. We could stay a night.”

“I’m shattered.” He perched himself on the end of the sofa, and she had to move her feet out of the way before he crushed them. “I wouldn’t mind a drink, though. We’ll head back tomorrow.”

She nodded and closed her book over the worn bookmark she traveled with. “Alright. Our stock or head out to a pub?”

“Our stock,” he answered quickly. “I don’t think I could entertain the locals another night. Have you got any of that whisky I like?”

“The whisky you finished off in Dublin?” She smirked and raised a brow as she lifted off the sofa. She watched his face fall, and then added, “Good thing I grabbed another while we were there.”

“You’re the best.” His words chased after her as she rushed from the room to her luggage. When she returned with the large, glass bottle and a plastic cup, a grin split his face. He reached a tattooed arm out and plucked the drink from her hands. “Aren’t you having one with me?”

She chewed her lip, standing in front of him in a flowy sundress. Her gaze dipped to is bare chest and she took a deep breath. Better not, she thought. It was treading into murky territory post-fake date and she still wasn’t sure what to make of these new… feelings.

“I don’t think so,” she said finally.

“C’mon, Granger. One drink with me?” His lower lip pouted and it was so ridiculous that the laugh chased out of her before she could stop it.

“Fine then. One drink.” She turned to grab another plastic cup, but he stopped her. He tapped his wand to the cup and duplicated it effortlessly. Hermione took it gingerly from him and then sat down with a good chunk of space between them. “Thanks.”

“So.” He tipped a good portion of whisky into the cup and then did the same with hers. She took a sip immediately, but almost choked when he surprised her with, “Are we going to talk about our kiss the other night, or…?”

“Do we have to?” She asked meekly after coughing through the burning pain in her throat. “I know what it was — and I appreciate how authentic it was. Molly won’t be harassing me for a very long time.”

She peered at him over the rim of her cup to find him doing the same. The bottom of his cup covered his face as he drained it and poured another. He offered the whisky to her, but she shook her head. One drink, and she hadn’t even finished what she had already.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted softly. “Can you?”

Hermione held her breath and then guzzled down the rest of the whisky quickly, sticking the cup back out for another. Draco smiled a lopsided grin and obliged. She drank that one, too, wincing through the entire series of swallows.

“It—” Merlin, she wished she had more to drink before this conversation. It’s all she could think about for days. That kiss. His lips. The way he held her close. The attraction. His arousal. A blush painted her cheeks. “It was a good kiss.”

“Good?” he sounded insulted. The glass bottle and his plastic cup lay forgotten on the coffee table nearby and he hoisted himself forward and in her personal space. “Just bloody good? Are we talking about the same kiss?”

His grey eyes wouldn’t let up. The only thing grounding her was the cup that was wrapped in both her hands, squeezing it until it made a loud crumbling sound. She jumped, blinked slowly, and let a shallow breath pass between them.

“It was better than good, alright?” A hard swallow followed her words when his eyes flashed and a small smirk toyed at the corner of his lips. He was closer still. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea to repeat it.”

Draco’s hand reached out, tucking a thick and wild chunk of curls behind her ear. His hand trailed her jaw, and despite that she’d told him it wasn’t a good idea, he smiled deeper.

“I don’t disagree.” Positively wolfish, the way he moved toward her, eyes darkening, as his fingers moved to her chin and raised it slightly. “However, there is the matter of the favor you owe me.”

“The favor.” Her tongue felt swollen as the words barely rushed past her lips.

“In exchange for being your fake date to Arthur’s birthday,” he reminded her. His eyes dipped to her lips and up again. “You promised me a favor of my choosing.”

“I did.” Her tongue darted our to moisten her dry lips.

“I’m asking for the favor now, Granger.” He closed in and a breath whooshed from her lungs.. “And if you don’t want to make good on your promise, please tell me now.”

“W-what favor do you want?” She thought she knew; it was implied. But, Merlin help her if she was wrong. She didn’t know if she wanted to be wrong, didn’t know if she wanted to be right, didn’t know if this would ruin everything.

“You know,” he said softly. “Merlin, there’s no way that you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted you all this time.”

There was a jolt straight to her core. Heat flooded her, pooling at her cheeks. That couldn’t be, could it? She’d never considered that he could — would — want her. He was Draco, for Godric’s sake, and she was Hermione. It didn’t make sense. Her face must have said as much, because Draco rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He let loose a heavy chuckle, head shaking slightly so that his blond hair fell over his forehead.

“You — want — me?” She repeated his words slowly as they sunk into her mind. So many things made so much more sense now. The carrying her shopping, buying her drinks and meals, walking through their hotels and inns shirtless. The way he’d touch her gently or laugh at her jokes, or how his eyes would linger on her throat or her hips or her lips or — oh, Merlin, he wanted her.

Excitement thrummed through her as her hands rose and took him at both sides of his face. She stared at him, eyes darting between his eyes to see if there was any, any doubt there. Finding none, she smashed her lips to his and pulled away quickly.

He breathed and it ghosted across her lips. She blinked and when the world came back into focus, he stared at her with fiery eyes. Tight, under control, holding back.

“Was that not okay?” Hermione panicked; she wasn’t used to throwing caution to the wind, not used to just going for things. Perhaps she shouldn’t have, or maybe it wasn’t what Draco thought it should be.

Something flashed through his eyes and then his hands were in her hair, wrapped around the curls near her scalp. He pulled her to him and crushed their lips together. She swallowed the moan that tore from his throat and threw her leg over his lap so that she was straddling him on the sofa. His tongue moved against hers, lips demanding more and more and more. He took everything she had to give and then he demanded more. She was out of breath and heady and it felt so, so right.

They stayed like that for ages before she finally ripped her lips from his. The smile on her face wouldn’t budge. “So, was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?” He cracked his eyes open and the lust-filled glint in them stole her breath away.

“Was being my fake date worth one little kiss?”

“Oh, no,” he stood with her still wrapped around his hips and he walked her towards her bedroom. “That wasn’t the favor. You gave that kiss freely. The favor is that you’ll allow me to sleep in your bed tonight after I’ve fucked you into the mattress.” 

Nothing was going to be the same. And she was absolutely okay with that as her back slammed into a wall and he claimed her mouth again, grinding against her and breathing affirmations into her ear.


End file.
